


Tremble

by shireteapot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/pseuds/shireteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the darkness of his sleepless nights, when he stares at the second unused teacup set dutifully next to his own on the coffee table, John Watson aches. He aches and he trembles, because his best friend is gone and without him he just...he can't." Post-Fall. John struggles to cope with life without his consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremble

**Author's Note:**

> Written as friendship, but to be interpreted any way you like. Just a little something that came out when I was trying to fight off writer's block today. My first attempt at writing for Sherlock, hope I've done it justice! I absolutely bawled like a baby watching The Reichenbach Fall and since then I've been itching to write something for it. Anyways, here we are. I'd be so grateful if you could drop me a review and let me know what you thought, I'm not quite satisfied but I'd love to know what my fellow Sherlockians think! Rated T and up just because of the grief theme, I don't want to accidentally upset any younger readers.

xxxx

**Tremble**

xxxx

x

Sometimes, when he can't sleep – which is nearly all the time – John summons the energy to crawl wearily out of bed and move downstairs to his armchair. And he sits. He just sits. Often he'll pull his dressing robe tighter around himself, shivering lightly in the new chill that has seeped into the flat. No matter how high he raises the thermostat, even when Mrs Hudson swoops in and complains that it's sweltering hot and he needs to turn it down before he overheats, it makes no difference. He still feels cold, always cold. And John knows better than anyone that this endless, unforgiving iciness starts inside him.

He'll fold his arms securely over his chest and that's where they'll stay, whether he pulls his knees up to his chin or tilts his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling. A subconscious attempt to hold himself together, one last try at clinging on to the broken pieces that make him up. He doesn't realise he does it. And there's no one else around to point out such things to him anymore.

He hates the haunting quiet that engulfs the flat _always_ , not just in the middle of the night but in the morning and the afternoon and the evening. He hates the silence that blankets him in this place from the moment he wakes up to the moment he collapses into bed; he hates it because it reminds him of before, before danger and excitement and crime-solving, before _this_. Back when he was so _lonely_ and so _empty_ , like the days that are winding slowly past him. John can't stand to remember those times, can't bear it, and right now it's all he can do to pretend that he won't have to face that isolation again. That he's not all alone once more, now that Sherlock's...now that he's...

John trips on the name every now and then, chokes. But even when it creeps up on him and tumbles out unhindered – like those nights he comes home from work and for a moment simply _forgets_ , calls out – he still freezes. He still clams up. And in the darkness of his sleepless nights, when he stares at the second unused teacup set dutifully next to his own on the coffee table, John Watson _aches_. He aches and he trembles, because his best friend is _gone_ and without him he just...he _can't_. Can't think, can't sleep, can't breathe. He goes through the motions: he gets up and goes to work, smiles and jokes with Sarah and his patients; he comes home and makes dinner, laughs at Mrs Hudson's unfunny stories; he goes to bed. But he doesn't really function. John doesn't _feel_ any of it, frozen by the chill and buried beneath the quiet. He's not _alive_. And when he does sleep, catches a poor imitation of rest in fitful fragments, he relives _it_ all over again in his dreams. In his nightmares. The fall, arms outstretched, down

down

down

down

_WHA –_

He wakes up yelling with hot tears spilling over his cheeks. _Goodbye, John_.

It's a Thursday, and one long, awful month has passed, when he realises that he can no longer remember the sound of the violin. Mrs Hudson has bought a radio for the kitchen – to try and counteract the emptiness his partner left behind, he supposes – and although normally he turns it off whenever she's not around he leaves it playing on this one occasion. It's Classical Hour, and a soft violin piece is floating around the kitchen as John drinks his morning tea at the sink. _His_ teacup is carefully set out on the usual side of the table, like always. John's eyebrows draw together as he listens and he thinks to himself that the station could benefit from playing some of _his_ compositions: something with much more feeling, more energy, more essence. And then he goes rigid with his cup halfway to his mouth, because he can't remember. He can't remember the music, can't recall the dips and long notes that used to fill their evenings whenever they were working a particularly difficult case. Swallowing, he licks his bottom lip. No, he must remember some of them. He must do, after all those nights listening. The one that was inspired by Irene Adler, how did that go? John squeezes his eyes shut and hums, hoping it'll come back to him once he starts the tune off. _Mm, mm-mm, mm mm mm-mm_...It takes thirty seconds before he notices that the song he's humming is one he heard on the radio the last time Mrs Hudson was round. That realisation makes his breath hitch in his throat, and a sharp pain twist in his chest. His lips press together tightly, an uncomfortable sting creeping up behind his eyes. He can't _remember_.

His hands shake as he tips the still-hot contents of his cup down the sink, setting it on the counter. He needs to get to work. That's what he needs to do. He has to get out of this place. John is an army man; he's always prided himself on his ability to retain control, to stay calm in the middle of warzones and emergency surgery on the battlefield. Never once did he lose his nerve out there, and that was how he saved lives. But when he turns away from the sink that morning, desperately trying to suppress all the memories that are slowly but surely squeezing the life from him, the second, lone teacup on the table catches his eye. _His_ teacup. And just like that, he loses it.

The cup smashes against the wall on the other side of the room in an explosion of china, shards flying everywhere, but he doesn't see it shatter: he collapses into the chair, _his_ chair. And as hard sobs wrack his frame John Watson hunches over the table, hands tearing at his hair and trembling violently, and pleads.

_Please, Sherlock._

_Please, come back._

_Sherlock._

_Please._

It's not just the violin. He can't remember the sound of _his_ footsteps on the stairs, or the exasperated sighs, or the tone of smug delight that would appear whenever they cracked a case. He can't remember.

Sometimes, when he can't sleep, John summons the energy to crawl out of bed. He slips on his dressing robe and pads down the stairs to curl up in his armchair. And he sits. He just sits. He stares at the sleek violin case propped up against the fireplace, exactly where _he_ left it. He stares at the single lonely teacup abandoned on the coffee table, and the empty space beside it where its counterpart used to be. He stares at the other armchair and the empty space where _his_ counterpart used to be. He pulls his robe tighter around himself as the quiet of the flat presses deafeningly against his eardrums, and closes his eyes.

Sherlock is gone. And he's never coming back.

And John aches. Trembles.


End file.
